


Slaughterhouse

by wilyasha



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Child Abuse, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Gen, Proxima-centric, Sibling Rivalry, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 23:43:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilyasha/pseuds/wilyasha
Summary: Hostility and madness brew in the cauldron of her stomach. Her amber eyes burn, less from the warpaint and more from the unsettling anguish. What else must she do to prove herself? She is the eldest daughter, yet treated as if she is a reserve.





	Slaughterhouse

**Author's Note:**

> Not only am I destroying the timeline, but I’m mixing some of the events from both the comics and cinematic universe because I like to play god. I wished the film utilized Proxima and the Black Order a bit more. And I wanted some interactions between Proxima and her sisters. The idealist in me likes to think that although they fought, they still had each other's backs (and only age and searching for the Stones made them grow distant).

Proxima smears black paint across her lids, blending it into the sweeping horns that decorate her face. She’s done this a thousand times, but can never quite get it right. It’s so easy for it to drip into her eyes before it’s all set and dry. And when the burning starts, she wails in private as she desperately splashes water across her face. A resilient and blooded warrior such as herself shouldn’t cry because of a bit of warpaint. 

“Do you need help?” 

The metallic voice sets her teeth on edge. It grates against her nerves, coils deep into her conscience. Perhaps she should be softer with those she cares about, but Father says that that breeds weakness.

“I can manage,” Proxima says, gnashing her teeth together as she swipes at her face with the back of her hand.

“You said we’d play last night,” Nebula complains, crossing her arms over her chest. “Can we go now?”

“Not today,” she retorts, finally managing to keep the wet paint from creasing on her lid. 

“But you promised,” Nebula whines.

“Not today,” Proxima growls. “Go ask Gamora.”

“She’s busy.” Nebula huffs, sticking out a blue lower lip in a puerile display. She’s too old for this type of behavior.

“With what?” Proxima asks, eyes narrowing.

“Dad’s taking her someplace,” the youngest sister explains. “She said it was a surprise.”

Hostility and madness brew in the cauldron of her stomach. Her amber eyes burn, less from the warpaint and more from the unsettling anguish. What else must she do to prove herself? She is the eldest daughter, yet treated as if she is a reserve. A placeholder for when one of the other children fail him. Reliable, but unnecessary. Gamora, his prized daughter, who is coddled and can do no wrong. Nebula, who tries and tries and tries, and every once in a while their father will place his open palm across her shaved head and caress the soft skin. She will eagerly lap up that rare affection, so touch-starved and yearning. And then Supergiant, too unstable and volatile to work with others and placed away like a sweet princess in some high tower. 

But Proxima must train with the boys. Proxima must prove herself better. More agile. More obedient. More cruel. And yet she doesn’t get half the affection her sisters do. 

Jealousy unfurls like a bitter flower, poisoning her bloodstream. How callous must she be to gain her father’s respect? 

-

Proxima regrets everything. She vomits several times until yellow bile swirls into the toilet bowl. She wasn’t able to shield Nebula from their father’s brazen experiments. And now, she couldn’t even protect Gamora from--

The tightness in her throat makes her squeal. 

“Useless, useless, useless,” Proxima mutters softly. 

“Are you alright?” Corvus asks from the doorway.

“No,” she admits. 

She hears Corvus’ boots whisper across the floor. He moves closer and closer, presses a hand against her shoulder. Too intimate for just mere brother and sister. But it eases the tension coiling around her neck and she leans into his soothing touch. 

“How is she?” Proxima asks. 

“She’ll recover and Father has made sure she’ll be stronger than before,” Corvus admits. “I promise you. Gamora will be fine.”

Proxima nods, wiping away tears and warpaint. 

“If it’s any consolation, Maw and I argued with him,” Corvus continues. “She wasn’t ready for an excursion like that.”

Proxima flushes the toilet, biting back a harsh laugh. She imagines Corvus pleading with their father while Maw slowly calculates the appropriate way to approach him. Perhaps platitudes and praise and flowery words, so cloying that it sounds like awful poetry. Or perhaps something more merciless that will cut to Thanos’ dense bones. _How can you sacrifice your favorite?_

White noise fills her ears as she washes her hands at the sink. She splashes cool water across her face and lets Corvus wipe her clean with a towel. He cradles her head in his hands, sweeping his thumbs across the planes of her cheeks, nudging his fingers against the sensitive skin surrounding her horns.

She melts into his embrace, leaning wearily against the heat of his body. A sob jerks through her. 

“I feel like one day,” she grits out, “I won’t be able to protect them. Gamora and Nebula. One day they’ll leave me behind.”

“They’ll never leave you or us,” Corvus says, holding her tightly. His hand threads through strands of blue hair. “They love Father too much.”

She hopes Corvus is right.

-

During one summer, Father docks the Sanctuary II for repairs. He hires a crew of pirates to do some dirty work leaving his children to relax at a warm harbor in space. It’s the first time in a long time where they’ve been allowed this retreat. There’s no blood on her hands, no one’s flesh beneath her fingernails, no bruises on her abdomen caused by kicking opponents. No hunting for Stones.

It’s a gentle reprieve. The Outriders and Chitauri take over the small port and Proxima doesn’t skip out on ordering dish after dish of hot and spicy stews, pickled vegetables, soupy greens, and hearty meats. She disregards her strict diet and even stricter training regiment until her stomach distends and drowsiness takes over. 

Her brothers are off mindlessly torturing locals, barbaric acts of violence that even she revels in when the mood strikes. But Nebula sticks to her side, feeding on the same succulent meals and begging to play a card game after the two suns set and three of the small moons begin to peek out against the horizon. She brushes Nebula off in favor of watching Gamora. 

Gone is the curious girl who had always clung to the warmth of their father’s hand. In her place is a wary creature, shrouded by thick long hair and clinging to a fabric doll that Father had given her during one holiday celebration. She’s too old for such toys just as Nebula is too old to suck her thumb, but Proxima doesn’t say a word. She only allows them their small comforts and keeps Gamora in her peripheral while Nebula chatters around a wet thumb. 

When the sky grows cloudy and rain drenches the outdoors, Proxima finally agrees to play Nebula at some old board game they find in the back of the tavern. They take turns making their moves and capturing pieces, until Proxima has beaten Nebula three times and the younger grows restless. 

“Gamora,” Nebula calls out. “Do you want to play ‘Ima next?”

Gamora shrugs one green shoulder before swirling her spoon around, clinking the metal against the stew-filled bowl. 

“Come here,” Proxima sighs. 

Gamora stands, takes one long look at the board, and walks past them. She’s out the door of the tavern before Nebula can call her back. Proxima’s jaw sets as she bares her teeth back in a deep snarl. 

A well of anger collects in her belly. It’s such a familiar sensation that it has become her own comfort to do so. To let that darkness and sadism swell, to let it fester until it’s all-consuming. Until she’s the perfect weapon for Thanos. 

-

The world she lands on is made of black rock. It appears to be more like an asteroid than a fabled planet of legend. Whoever gave it this classification should be flayed as far as Proxima is concerned. There has been whispered voices on the edges of Thanos’ territory, aliens claiming that a Stone has been seen. Ever the diligent daughter, Proxima elects to go by herself. 

The creatures of this black rock are short and stumpy with exoskeletons of brilliant white. Every step Proxima takes, bones crunch beneath her boots. Skulls of foreign creatures and mythological warriors cover the paths. Pools of green miasma froth like the foam collecting at the lips of a hellhound. The scent in the air is acrid and sour, so pungent that Proxima’s nose wrinkles and she must cover her mouth to suppress the urge to vomit.

A scuffle of footsteps shift the pebbles and rocks. The little beasts hide in the alcoves of ridged hills. A large bronze fortress rests in the distance. Several towers are broken and scattered on the ground. 

Her first attacker comes out of nowhere, but Proxima’s spear reacts like it is an extension of her senses. The metal thrums against the skin of her palm, heated and eager for blood. She shifts on her feet, twisting fast and letting her spear fly. The middle prong wedges itself between the beast’s eyes. Black blood oozes from the punctured sockets and dribbles down its pockmarked cheeks. 

Proxima calls back her spear, the weapon making a wet squelching noise as it dislodges. 

The beasts in the shadows cling to their rocks, until another plucks up the courage to attack. It wildly squawks as it launches towards her. Proxima grips her spear in both hands and thrusts forward. A jolt of blue energy erupts from the prongs, spearing through the creature's chest. It flies back and hits a gnarled, dead tree before slumping over. A scorched blotch marks its blistering chest.

“Foul creature,” Proxima murmurs. 

“They are an infestation,” says a honeyed voice. 

Proxima turns, eyes narrowing at the slender figure perched on a large equine skull. The woman’s pale skin stands out against the hellish gray sky. She wears a worn green tunic and leather breeches. Her bare feet are cracked and bleeding, smearing trails of dark blood across white bone. Light eyes are hidden behind a curtain of silky black hair. 

“Every time I try to cleanse this realm, they always stumble back on their lopsided little hooves,” the woman says, a sharp grin revealing polished teeth. 

Proxima’s grip tightens on her spear. “I’m here for the Stone. Give it to me or die.”

She’s not as loquacious as Maw. She has no use for words when a fist will do just as good. 

“Or die?” The woman laughs. “You think I fear death?” 

Proxima’s eyes narrow. “Who are you?”

“Just a friend in this cruel timeline we call life,” she says. Her twinkling eyes are the color of honeydew flesh, a rare and foreign fruit.

“I’m looking for a Stone,” Proxima repeats stoically. 

The woman shifts forward. She stands on a femur and watches it crack beneath her feet. “Mmmm… there are no Infinity Stones here, sweet one.”

“But…”

She turns, the dark gossamer of her hair shielding her from view. “Leave me to my prison, daughter of Thanos. Leave me before you die by my hand.”

Proxima is frozen by the woman’s words. Why is she, an apex predator, yielding to this demoness’ orders? With cold hands and a stuttering heart, Proxima takes a few hasty steps back. She’ll never return to this planet, to this unforgiving realm, ever again. And she’ll make it her life’s mission to ensure that her father never hears of this pallid creature and its subterranean prison. 

-

Gamora knocks Proxima on her back for the fifth time that day. She’s grown stronger, beating both Proxima and Nebula during sparring sessions. 

Unlike Nebula, Proxima doesn’t get the cruel punishment of being torn apart and repurposed. While Nebula gets metal upgrades, Proxima gets mediation cycles. While Nebula’s shrill screams echo within the confines of a dank laboratory aboard the Sanctuary II, Proxima drowns them out with the feel of Corvus’ warm breath fanning across her cheek and his long fingers coaxing a sweet orgasm from the depths of her taut body. 

“Again,” Gamora demands. 

“No,” Proxima retorts, standing to brush off the filth of the training mat. “I’m done for today.”

“Coward,” Gamora hisses.

Without another word, Proxima lifts her fallen staff and swings it above her head in a wide semicircle. She drops to the ground, left leg extending and sweeps Gamora’s legs out from beneath her. 

The younger sister flails in midair before falling down with a childish yelp. Gamora is bewildered that Proxima managed to even land a strike. 

“Don’t get too cocky,” Proxima says impassively. “I can still anticipate your every move. You overthink what your opponent will do next. Your gaze is overcritical yet lazy. You--”

“Enough, Proxima,” Thanos warns. 

The sisters spring up from the ground, staring at the great doorway where Thanos stands like a pillar of confidence and power. Nebula, so small beside him, peers around his bulk. She rolls her eyes at the scene in front of them. 

“I may have taught the three of you to always tell the truth,” Thanos reprimands, “but do not berate one another just to gain the upper hand. That is not a fair battle.”

Proxima scoffs, turning away so their father can’t see the anger glistening in her eyes. 

“Remember to help one another,” Thanos continues, ignoring her teenage moods. 

He places a large hand against the back of Nebula’s head, calloused thumb stretched to her temple and stroking where metal meets flesh. Fear wavers across Nebula’s face and the expression tugs at something protective and primal deep within Proxima.

“With Supergiant so erratic,” Thanos says with a smile, “the three of you must be equals on the battlefield. Proxima, you are the most stalwart. Break them.”

“What?” Proxima asks, mouth agape. 

Thanos nudges Nebula forward. She is a newborn foal walking on unsteady legs, her movements so shaky from her last surgery. 

There is no room for failure.

“Make your sisters stronger.”


End file.
